


Quantum Physics III

by Nerdwithapen



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Professor Sans (Undertale), Professor!Sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdwithapen/pseuds/Nerdwithapen
Summary: You made a huge mistake.Everyone warned you that the afternoon course for Quantum Physics III was cursed. They said it was impassable. For any given semester, less than a handful of students managed not to fail. It was a nightmare for any Ph.D. student, but despite numerous complaints and petitions, the class remained.Over-confidence was your downfall. You had always managed to pass every class, no matter how difficult or time-consuming. Naturally, you assumed this one would be no different. Professor Osteo, or Professor Sans as he was more often called, would finally meet his match.You realized far too late that not only were you not a match, but you weren’t even playing the same game.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Quantum Physics III

The class started out simple enough. _Too_ simple, really. The professor’s lectures were easy to follow along with but didn’t actually **teach** much of anything. They were so casual that it was almost like talking to a friend outside of class, and it didn’t help that Professor Sans didn’t exactly fit in with the image of a serious educational institute. He came to class in hoodies, shorts, and loosely tied sneakers. Sometimes he came in with slippers. More than once, you noticed him taking a nap between classes at his desk.

At first, you had liked his goofy nature. While some professors seemed to make a contest out of who could give the most difficult homework assignments, Professor Sans always kept it easy and, well, ridiculous. His class ate hotdogs (or veggie dogs) and took naps for their assignments. Once, he gave them actual work to do in an intimidating, sealed up folder. It turned out to be just a weekly crossword puzzle from their local newspaper.

After the first exam, though, the goofiness became less charming. You expected the same casual lackadaisical approach that the rest of the course was known for, but instead, you were met with legitimate questions and problems that you hadn’t even faintly prepared for. The material was far over your head. You failed the first exam.

Some students dropped the class after that. A few complained to the school, but somehow, Professor Sans managed to stay within every guideline he was technically supposed to follow. He had, after all, provided all the necessary materials for learning. He just never _told_ them to look through it.

You decided to stay in the class. It felt personal at that point. Professor Sans was always grinning, and you dreamt of being the one to wipe it off his smug skull. The material was harder to learn on your own than you’d expected, though. One of the surviving students suggested asking the professor for help directly, an approach that apparently worked out well for them. You refused. That was what _class_ was for. If Professor Sans was going to actually teach, he needed to do it in the time **you** gave him, not the other way around.

“He’s really not so bad if you just ask him.” Your fellow student murmured as Professor Sans took a nap during the remaining half-hour left of class, “He helped me a lot on the last few chapters.” 

You huffed and said under your breath, “Fuck him. I’ll figure it out on my own since he obviously can’t be bothered to _do his job_.”

The next couple of exams resulted in slightly better grades, but not by much. You were still going to fail the course unless by some miracle you aced the final— and there was no way of that happening. Not without a little… _help._ Admittedly, you cheated in classes before, but only when it was absolutely _necessary._ Over the years, you had perfected your technique to an art form. Even hawk-eyed professors with a paranoid eye for trouble never once caught you. Professor Sans hardly paid attention to the class as it was. You figured cheating was only fair since he’d cheated **you** out of a proper education.

You knew the drill. While you had all the answers handy from the get-go, you pretended to work them out and took sufficient time between each question. You weren’t the first done or the second. You waited for that sweet middle spot before you "finished" your exam and pretended to check your answers one final time. 

Students turned their papers into Professor Sans, right next to his slippered feet kicked up on his desk. He barely even opened his sockets as the exam pile grew larger and the students dwindled smaller. It was time. 

With a calming breath, you walked to the professor’s desk and placed your exam with all the others. You began to walk away, a small smile on your lips for out-smarting a smartass in the end. 

“hey." 

The sound of Professor Sans’s familiar, deep voice made you stop. There was an edge to it that you couldn’t remember hearing before, and your heart rate quickened in nervous fear. You turned around, trying your best to appear genuinely confused. 

"Uh, yes?" 

Professor Sans had a gloved hand on your exam. He flicked it forward, eye lights regarding you with more focus than he’d ever shown before. Then, just as quickly as it came, the look was gone. 

"forgot to put your name, pal.” His eye lights looked amused as he spoke with a slight curve to the bottom of his sockets. You felt your tense shoulders relax. 

“Oh. Sorry,” you said and accepted the paper, digging out a pencil from your backpack. Professor Sans handed you one on his desk instead. "Thank you—" 

“so how was it?" 

You had barely begun writing your name and the immediate question caused you to flub one of the letters. "What?" 

"the exam.” Professor Sans said, his gaze observing your face carefully, “how’d it go?" 

It wasn’t the first time a professor had polled you after an exam. You always went with the same response. "It was ok, but I’m glad I took the extra time to study. It came in handy." 

"normally does,” he agreed before accepting back your paper, "think you passed?“

You nodded with a look designed to be both confident and hopeful. "I think so!" 

Professor Sans tossed your paper to the side with a lazy turn of his wrist. "great. less work for me, then." 

Your exam settled against a brown take-out bag while Professor Sans appeared to make himself comfortable again. He didn’t say anything else. You hesitated, but when it seemed like that was the end of the conversation, gathered your backpack up and started to make your way out the door once more. The professor’s voice stopped you just a few steps away. 

"one more thing, buddy." 

You turned, a bit irritated, but that quickly passed when you saw your tiny, rolled up answer-sheet between Professor Sans’s thumb and index finger. 

"you forgot this, too." 

It didn’t seem possible. You had kept it so carefully hidden and tucked away, but there it was. Your own incriminating evidence. 

"That’s _not mine—”_ the words rushed out before you could stop them, " _I don’t know who’s that is, I—"_

“oh.” Professor Sans gave it another look and unrolled the paper. 

It wasn’t your answer sheet. 

It was a fortune from a Chinese cookie. 

Professor Sans winked and tucked the paper into his pocket. “my bad. guess this one must be mine." 

Your skin felt cold and clammy as though it were dying to sweat but couldn’t. You longed to check if your answer sheet was still in its hidden compartment, but it would have to wait. Thoughts buzzed around in quick panicking bursts. _Had you outed yourself just then? Had the professor just been **testing you?**_

"anyway. have a good summer, kid." 

You nodded numbly and turned, once more, toward the door. 

"last thing,” Professor Sans said, ever casual and relaxed as you felt the drilling of his eye lights on the back of your head. You faced him. You were sure that your expression looked ill. 

Professor Sans grinned at you. 

“don’t retake this class,” he said, "m'not a fan of dirty cheaters.“ 

"I didn’t…” Your voice sounded weak, even to you. You tried again. "What makes you think I cheated?“ 

You thought you saw the soft glow of the professor’s eye lights dim until his sockets were merely shadows. 

" _d i d y o u?_ " 

You spun around and left the classroom without another word. Your hands were shaking as you searched for the compartment holding your answer-sheet. If it was still there, then it was only the professor’s word against yours. No one could prove it. No one could catch you— but it was gone. 

The next few weeks were spent in torment waiting for your official grades to be released. You avoided walking by Professor Sans’s classroom or eating any Chinese food. Somehow, both felt ruined. Finally, grades were in. You hid in your room and logged on with trembling fingers. Most of your results were good: A, A, B+, A-…your eyes scanned down to Quantum Physics III. There was no letter grade. Only two words. 

**Dirty Cheater.**

You retook the course with a different professor the following semester. Somehow, the not-grade-grade from Professor Sans class forever remained on your transcript. You didn’t cheat again. 


End file.
